The Lighthouse Keeper
BY DANIEL W. DRAKE
What with so much of the passing of life and the beginning of life, the past week or so have been pretty intense. Where does one go from there? Much of what could be written about seems mundane. Valentine's Day? What should be written is kind of personal. Otherwise, any more plugs would be gilding the lily, which in this instance, has already been well-gilded by the makers of greeting cards, candy and whatever else might be thought of to mark the occasion...

Wouldn't it be nice to just curl up and take a week off? The time could be well used to re-nourish the soul and regenerate some brain cells. Back from a few days exposure to the rigors of the big city of Boston; isolated, on our little island, from the outside world; everything seems benign. Any thought of even getting back into the Nantucket pace of things is elusive.

Then, on Monday morning, the telephone rings I almost do not answer it because the caller ID shows that the call comes from an 800 number. Maybe it is the solicitor for the police union charity trying to atone for calling before 8 a.m. a couple of Sunday's ago - or for the call-back that same Sunday evening about 7 p.m. However, figuring that I had done a pretty good job of scaring those guys off, and wanting to postpone going to work any way I could, I answer the call.

A disembodied, mechanical voice greets me. After a brief and hardly discernible preamble about credit card use, I was told, "If this is (you), please press one." After checking myself out, dutifully, I own up to being me.

Instead of hearing, "We are glad you are you," I am asked to punch in my zip code. With a heightened sense of urgency, I do exactly that. It must have been exactly what the voice wants, because the next thing, I hear is, "We are going to ask you about three transactions. If you recognize the transaction press one. "If you do not recognize the transaction, please press two."

There was no follow up, "Are you ready?" I gather myself and sit, finger poised.

"Do you recognize a charge on 2/11 for $38.67 from (pause) booksellers?"

I think. I realize I need to be fast on my feet - or at least quick with my finger. Where was I yesterday? "Ah yes" I think "I bought a couple of DVD's at a 'bookseller' in Hyannis on my way back from Boston. That was between the car wash and…." I come out of my reverie and press one. "I certainly didn't defraud myself on that one and I handled it perfectly," I thought, smugly.

"The voice continues, "Do you recognize a transaction for $374.32 to (long pause) merchandise?"

Now I am stumped. "What did I do after I went to the car wash and the 'bookseller'? Yes, I wandered around the mall. Why can't the voice identify the merchant? Did I buy anything else? No. Well, one small thing - but I paid cash. I headed for the ferry. Hey, I am being defrauded."

I jam my finger onto the two button. The voice immediately says, "You will be transferred to a customer service representative."

Prepared for almost any accent and ready to wait for a while, I am startled to hear a cheery American voice tell me she is Sally and ask me for my mother's maiden name. I usually forget that my mother had a maiden name, but, somehow, on this special occasion of the pillaging of my wallet, I come up with it on the first try.

After once again establishing that I am me, or as close to me as she can be sure of without a picture phone or webcam, Sally politely asks, "How can I help you today."

Not being sure who is helping who, I continue, explaining that "You are calling me about unauthorized use of my credit card. This time you are not making me look like an ass in front of some merchant whose day I have just made, but in fact you are right." (I don't say the last sentence, but I really want to.)

We establish that the two charges between my duly-authorized car repair last Thursday and that of the "bookseller," were not within my spending patterns. Someone has been using me to give themselves gifts. Not only was there the $374.32 for "merchandise," but another for $1246.78 for "auto parts." Ouch!

Actually, we don't establish anything. Nothing will be established until I sign and return an affidavit which will come in the mail in a week or so. And my credit won't be restored until it is decided, in the next day or so, that I am actually a decent person and worthy of receiving a new credit card. But I can relax, knowing I am off the hook for any more charges. I am relieved that these charges have been detected and even grateful that I was home to get the call.

I take a deep breath and go on with the day.

At noontime, I get the mail. There is an envelope that looks like junk, but the return address is of an eminent, employee-benefit consulting firm, and the name of the latest incarnation of my lesseminent former employer is also with the return address. Out of courtesy, I rip open the envelope and find a single-spaced letter about twice the length of this column and a credit report application. What in the merry deuce is going on?

I have to get through a couple of paragraphs of the letter to stumble on its raison d'etre... It seems that a laptop computer has been stolen from the office of said eminent consulting firm and, inter alia, my name and social security number were among the information contained thereon. Hmmm.

The letter continues to recite all the awful things that could happen to me as the result of this lack of safeguarding of my vital information, and recommends that I monitor the situation so I can watch them unfold. It also mentions that the theft occurred months ago, but that at the request of law enforcement authorities, the notification of affected parties was delayed. Hmmm. I will take this under advisement.

Having recently discovered in another, legitimate fashion - sitting across the table from an interviewer who had just about everything ever written about me or by me spread out on the table in front of her - exactly how much can be found out about a person these days, all of this comes as no surprise. It still is a shock.

I was wrong. Even on Nantucket you can't escape the outside world. It is there and you have to respond to it. And, it doesn't seem to stop piling on.

I have learned my lesson. Don't wish for what you cannot have. And in the expectation that my own Black Monday will not repeat itself, resign yourself to writing about Valentine's Day.

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The "Lighthouse Keeper" reflects the views of the author and does not necessarily represent the editorial position of The Nantucket Independent. Please send any comments to drake@nantucketindependent. com.